What Peace Feels Like
by NotCarlyle
Summary: "You touch me and suddenly I feel a little less war torn. I'm not sure what peace is supposed to feel like but I think it may feel a lot like you." - Anonymous


**What Peace Feels Like**

Lucy's eyelids fluttered; grey light flickerting through each blink. She sighed begrudgingly and hugged her knees to her chest. The injury from last night had been nagging at her hand, slowly burning away as the hours passed. Inching her eyes open, Lucy shifted her irritated hand towards the window, and pressed it tight with the other. She shut her eyes, waiting for the coolness of the window to breathe through her bandage. It briefly occurred to her that perhaps the cut was not supposed to burn so much. But as quickly as the thought flickered in, the chill seeped through, and the thought, out. Slowly, she begun a _tap-tap-ta-tap_ rhythm on the window. Lucy's fussing hand and short temper nagged at her brain. Pulling, tugging, tapping, forcing her to shift positions, until she was left little choice but to force herself awake. Upon opening her eyes, she spied the battered novel atop the table, and reached an empty hand for it.

Locked with his hands behind his head, Lockwood stared at the wall of the library. Wondering, not for the first time, whether any of the intricate ghost-hunting devices of his mothers were of any use. His head tilted against the cushion as he pressed himself into the couch, willing his memories back–the iron ribbed shield, perhaps?– _No_. That might've provided some protection against last night's poltergeist, given them something solid, repellent as well. Maybe it would've been strong enough, useful even. _Stop._ It could've made a halfway decent defence against the deathly shards of glass of a raging poltergeist, the kind that gouge into the arms of agents– _For God's sake Lockwood_. He palmed his face. Lucy flickered back into his mind, white faced, teeth gritted, her nails dug deep into his hand–

 _Clink! Scree-screeeh!_

He jolted as the clink sounded. Upon whisking his head towards the small clatter, he found the source to be Lucy desperately pawing at a novel on the side-table. Her fingers dragging along its polished surface made the tiny squeaks, and the floor-bound spoon was presumably the culprit of the tinkling sound. She seemed quite determined, her face was scrunched and so his heartbeat slowed. Lucy's bandaged hand looked glued to the window, more out of stubbornness than anything else, and a smidge of her tongue poked out. Although he did not smile, Lockwood felt his eyes crinkle. A few more lunges saw her gain a grip, a flop of hair untuck itself, and the novel launch into her lap. With a satisfied flick of her hair, Lucy paged it open with one hand and Lockwood laughed.

She frowned, "What?"

"Nothing". He replied quietly, distracted by her darling frown. Lockwood's gaze flitted back to her hand, still pressed to the window. His smile straightened immediately. "Nothing."

Lucy glanced up to give him a strange look, and he grinned in response. His hands drew away from his sides, running through his hair as he tugged it in a million different directions. Lockwood languidly allowed his gaze to shift back to Lucy as she burrowed into the novel. It was hard to resist the desire, and the slow-burn of warmth she made him feel was far nicer than the shattered memories of last night.

Lucy shifted in her seat. She dog-eared the book and tossed it onto the table.

"I'm going to make some tea," She mumbled as she lowered her knees, "You fancy a cup?" Lucy looked up through a fringe of hair.

His face went jam red. "Yes, please."

"Sure." She smiled with drowsy amusement; padded through door. "Biscuits?"

Lockwood, still dazed, forgot to reply.

"Lockwood? _Biscuits?!"_ Lucy hollered over the rattling of drawers.

"Oh, yes!" _Dear god_ , he felt like a right idiot.

Lucy couldn't help but smirk. For an agent, so sharp on the job, Lockwood was easily distracted. And surprisingly easily embarrassed. She laughed again, recalling his flushed face. She bounced the teaspoon on the edge of the cup, encouraging gravity to do its work on the droplets that so desperately clung to the teabag. It bounced it a few more times, then she dropped it into the sink. Lucy upended the biscuit packet, pouring what was left – five biscuits to be exact (George, probably, had been scoffing them in secret) – and cautiously carted the tray back to the library. She shouldered the door open to find Lockwood standing in the middle of the room, shuffling through the novel with raised eyebrows.

He spun towards her, a smile beginning to play up. "Kiss Me Deadly?"

"Ye-es," Lucy replied cautiously, "It's yours, isn't it?"

Lockwood only grinned harder. "So it is."

"I was just reading it to pass the time."

"As you do."

Lucy set the tray on the coffee table before him with a quivering arm.

"Mhmm…" She nodded

"It's quite an interesting choice, certainly a bit bloody and a tad salacious."

Lucy stared at him, wide-eyed. "I wouldn't be able to tell you, I haven't finished the book yet."

Lockwood's smile faltered as he laughed, and averted his eyes. His forelock fell across his forehead, the curls brushing his brows, as he deftly reached for a cup. Lucy followed suit. They both dropped onto the couch, sipping at their tea. Lucy tapped her toes on the floor and eyed up a biscuit.

"It's an American novel, you know." He started.

She turned her head, "Oh, yes…that would explain some things."

"Like, what?"

Lucy took a second, "The, uh, temperature – they talked about it once, saying it was something like 82 degrees, which both was confusing and concerning."

Lockwood nodded, smiled, and grabbed a biscuit. "That was one my parents brought home from America actually. It was first published in 1952."

"That's quite a while back."

"It was turned into a film as well."

"Interesting."

Lucy, in need of warmth, pulled her knees up to the couch. She spent a great deal of time rearranging her legs just so. She tried folding them to the left, then right, and then underneath her – which required Lockwood to take hold of her tea. Eventually she gave up, and chose left, letting them rest gently against his legs and grabbed a hold of her cup again. Lockwood breathed out slowly.

"Say, why did you have your arm to the window? Is it feeling all right?"

Lucy bit into her biscuit. "Ah yes, it was just burning up a bit."

"The window was cool?"

"Yes."

He was already beginning to pull himself up, "Do you want ice?"

"Oh no, that would be too chilly," Lucy reached for him. "Besides it's fine."

"Are you sure?"

She raised an eyebrow. " _I'm okay_."

"Okay." He sat slowly.

A pause, "My hands are generally pretty cool, so they might just do the trick."

"Really?" Lucy looked at him skeptically.

"Here." He pressed a hand to her cheek.

The touch was soft, but his hand, by God, it was freezing. Lucy let out a sharp breath and smacked it away.

"They're like ice!" She exclaimed. Laughter swelled in her chest, chorusing warmth through her.

A grin was already splitting Lockwood's face.

"Jesus!"

Lucy lifted a hand to touch her cheek just as Lockwood burst out laughing. He reached another for her free hand and she yanked it away quick as lightning, which sent him into stitches. She tried to hold it back, to fold her arms tight, but the laughter found a way to escape. Watching his brown eyes endearingly sparkle and his massive lopsided grin was too much. Laughter bubbled through Lucy's lips. Soon, the two of them were in hysterics. Lockwood's face crinkled as he eyed her. Lucy raised her eyebrows in response. He just laughed some more.

"You're awful." She breathed through a fit of laughter.

"You're stuck with me." Lockwood grinned.

"I could always resign." She smirked.

He seemed to be trying to laugh, but he noticeably faltered. Some hidden emotion twisted his mouth and averted his eyes.

Lucy's laughter ended abruptly, "Oh."

Lockwood's jaw clenched, and he turned back to her. "It's fine."

"I'm sorry." She smiled softly, slowly contemplating the room.

Lockwood winced, regretting the action. The emotions even. But, much to his surprise, Lucy slowly inched out her gauzy arm until it rested in his lap. Lockwood raised his eyebrows, and she returned his stare, sure. Tentatively, he wrapped his slender fingers around it. Almost like a tiny embrace. She tilted her head against the couch.

Her voice was quiet, "That's actually quite nice."

Lockwood gazed at her face, at her lowered lids and calm posture. He nodded, lacking in words. Lockwood stared at the tendrils of tiny curls that sat on her cheekbones. _Fly-aways_ , he remembered. Lucy's eyes eventually shifted to return his gaze. He could have been embarrassed, but he was not. For Lucy was there with him; his hands wrapped around her wrist. A bit feverish was she, but certain, solid, and peaceful nonetheless.


End file.
